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The Legend of Uku
The Man Who Became A God(s) {Story} This tale is a number of generations old, heard and abridged by a scribe, leaving out a number of repetitive encounters, political rumors, and a camp announcement of that day's game hunt and lunch menu which were entwined in the story. This entry in the tome is meant to focus on the ascension of Uku at the discretion of the scribe. Let me tell you about the man who decided he wanted to be gods. He was short, had dark hair and eyes, and had been drinking his own urine for years. --Are you listening? That means pee, you know. He wanted to be gods. And that's because he didn't want to just be one, he thought he could be a lot of them--at least five, possibly with an option for a sixth if he made one of those Romulus & Remus twin deals or something. Anyways, he also made clothes, that was his thing to keep pork on the table. Searching through the underbrush he'd find everything dead with fur and skin it with a bone he made out of his deceased son's clavicle, cutting the flesh away from the skin and eating whatever didn't yet have maggots. Actually, sometimes he just went ahead and ate the maggots. He'd light these smoking sticks after he collected enough things, hang them up in his house, and dense gray clouds heavy with breath destroying stuff, it billow out the roof holes and no one would see him for days. If more than a week passed one of the older village guys was supposed to drag him out and slap him and dump water. --Are you getting all this? It's kind of like he was trying to kill himself just to see if he could live instead. So then after he spent a day coughing and begging in the streets, he'd go back home on all fours near death, skin sallow and looking like he caught the Jünta. This is where the part where the gods come in, all of them he thought he could be. He'd raise such a racket that if you went out past the double green stream and past the hill that smells like wet dogs, the echoes from his hut would reach you. The younger ones would espy him, bringing back reports of the things he would shout, all of them names, but not of anyone known to the village. It wasn't until years after they'd figured out these were those gods he wanted. Until then, it was simply thought his scarves and pantaloons and hats and other knitted goods had simply some pictures of some messed up looking animals, like a beaver that got in a fight with a deer and both lost so they turned into one thing. But the clothes were warm, so you know--hey listen up, it's getting important--so, like whatever you'd just wear them. This guy though, he was really particular about who bought what. Even if you liked the brown one that had the one that looked like a fishbird, he'd try and make you buy the gray one with a nasty looking fox--put that down, come, listen--so there was five of these animals, maybe six if the one that looked like a brown lump was actually an animal. These would go on to be known as The Hodgepodge Spirits. Anyways, one day the guy was dead, he was just outside his hut and he smelled like feces and he had this tight grin stretched across his lined face. Everyone was sad and cried for a long time, because ever though he was weird he was still part of the Whole. They brought him to the well and threw him in, and everyone came to see, and out of respect for him or just because it was still snow season they all wore the gloves and shirts and belts and things he wove, all with their creatures, and it was strange because the people started to notice who was wearing which odd monster. They all stood next to the ones that seemed to look like the, like people with the same pelican with fangs on their clothes gathered together to send him off. --No really, here's where it gets good. So everyone starts singing that song that you do when someone dies, and everyone's real sad but then someone's laughing--which is rude, but you keep going even if a village fool is going off like they do--so they keep singing and then He climbs back out of the well, and no one had done that before. He climbs out and He's the one doing all the laughing, ran through everyone jibbering and going on like He drank too much firewater then had baby, or something. Oh, and He didn't have a head, you know how they cut that off to put in the hole of the older folks place, don't want no bad spirits after all. Laughing was a strange thing indeed. They were pretty sure it happened because because He drank his own pee. Sometimes you'd be wandering through looking for game, or just going to have sex outside of the village with yourself or someone else, but if it was cold you'd still wear the clothes, and people came back telling stories of seeing the crazed clothes maker--now He was gods, I guess--and people would say they saw Him or something that looked like Him with the head of whatever animal you were wearing, and He'd come up screaming mad, screaming what we could only think was the name of that particular god. Naturally, we started worshipping the different animal ones, even though they weren't really supposed to do anything for us, but it was kind of something interesting to do inbetween looking for seeds and making pots and looking for the god and trying find Him while having sex Eventually, somewhere down the line, someone ascended to the elders and started saying how this one animal was better than that one, that He who became gods would scream that name louder if you saw Him wearing that animal's clothes. Some people thought the elder was right, others thought that animal god thing was wrong, so they fought wars for generations--the village had gotten a little too big anyways--and people killed eachother screaming the name of whatever name He had screamed at them. People would go out, say they saw Him, then come back and kill someone from a different animal, and it went on like this for a long time until they were pretty sure no one had seen Him in about a hundred years and the original clothes were tattered and gone, but people all need something to do I guess. Anyways, that's the story about He who became gods. His name's Uku. Things have been more peaceful ever since the village split up and moved to different places with their animal cohorts. A number of bored loners have tried repeating the steps He took, drinking their pee and embroidering strange animals on warm clothes, but so far all they've succeeded in doing is going insane, not becoming gods. Maybe it was a one time deal. But I bet each place wishes someone would come out their death well and start laughing and screaming, it'd sure make things more interesting here. At this point in his note-taking, the scribe was noticed and nearly eaten, only lucky to have not needed his left arm to run away from the pursuing tribe, no doubt driven to the hunt of of boredom of lack of new gods to give them guidance.